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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016460">Running out of things to hold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas'>givebackmylifecas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Grieving, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:36:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrés needs to say something instead of just clutching at a man whom he knows he’s wronged grievously. A man who just flew halfway around the world, risking prison and worse, just to be here for a ceremony that’s not even a funeral, because Sergio died nearly a year ago and Andrés still can’t believe it.<br/>“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says when he finally manages to wrench himself away from Martín.<br/>Martín makes a complicated gesture that’s halfway between a shrug and a headshake. “I wasn’t going to, but… But you asked,” he says, jaw clenched as if it’s painful to admit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Running out of things to hold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm sorry?</p><p>TWs: character death, mention of canon-typical gun violence, grieving</p><p>Fic title from the Amazing Devil song "Two Minutes"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hot as hell outside, because of course it is. The one time Andrés has wished for rain and a chill to match the numbness in his chest and mother nature just won’t cooperate. He envies the women in their dresses. They look hot too, but they’re not sweltering the way the men are in their suits.</p><p>Well, Andrés is in a suit. Rio and Denver are both in t-shirts and jeans, although at least they’re dressed all in black. Helsinki is wearing a short sleeved button-up and Andrés doesn’t like the gold threaded through it. It’s tacky.</p><p>Two weeks. It took two whole weeks for Sergio to succumb to the wounds he sustained dragging Andrés out of the mint. Two weeks and a further eight months before they could all return here, to this place in the Philippines where Andrés and Sergio had planned to settle after the heist.</p><p>It’s not a funeral really, Sergio’s body was cremated soon after his death, it’s a memorial, a remembrance, a place to show gratitude for the man who brought them all together.</p><p>The dry grass crunches under Andrés’ shoes as he follows the minister and his aide up the hill, to the spot he’d picked to bury the ashes. The others trail behind him, silent for the first time since he’s known them. It isn’t right, them all being here, burying an urn containing all that remains of Sergio. It should be Andrés, that’s what he’d planned, wasn’t it? At the very least it should be one of the others. Anyone, anyone but Sergio, his hermanito, his little brother, the first person whom Andrés had trusted implicitly since his father had taught him that no one can be trusted.</p><p>They gather around the hole that has already been dug, in a loose semi-circle. There’s a bowl of petals next to Andrés, he can smell the fragrance wafting off them, light enough that it isn’t overwhelming in the heat.</p><p>There’s silence and Andrés can hear the waves beating against the nearby beach. Just as the minister is about to speak there’s the sound of more footsteps, the brittle grass making the newcomer’s approach impossible to miss, and Andrés holds up a hand to silence the man.</p><p>“Who the hell is that?” Denver asks.</p><p>He’s opposite Andrés and seems to be the first of the gang to actually see something. Andrés turns, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. For a moment, he can’t make out much more than a blurry outline, the sunlight too bright to allow him much more. Then the person crests the hill and comes into focus and Andrés whole body relaxes so suddenly his knees almost give out.</p><p>Martín walks towards him and Andrés is happier than he should be at his brother’s funeral. He steps away from the group, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His… former friend is also dressed in a suit, hair combed back, tie in the knot Andrés remembers teaching him. Andrés wants to comment on that, say something about it, but he can’t get his mouth to cooperate.</p><p>He stops just in front of Martín, at a loss for words. Martín looks just as unsure as Andrés feels, Andrés can feel him studying him, can imagine the gears turning in his beautiful, analytical mind so like Serg-</p><p>Martín straightens his shoulders as if bracing himself for something and opens his arms. Andrés should act unaffected, should shake his hand, should walk them both over to the gang. Instead he steps right into Martín’s embrace, letting the other man wrap his arms around him.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Andrés,” Martín says, so softly Andrés could ignore it if he wanted to.</p><p>He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to ignore Martín, or let go of him, or be apart from him again.</p><p>He needs to say something instead of just clutching at a man whom he knows he’s wronged grievously. A man who just flew halfway around the world, risking prison and worse, just to be here for a ceremony that’s not even a funeral, because Sergio died nearly a year ago and Andrés still can’t believe it.</p><p>“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says when he finally manages to wrench himself away from Martín.</p><p>Martín makes a complicated gesture that’s halfway between a shrug and a headshake. “I wasn’t going to, but…”</p><p>“But?” Andrés breathes.</p><p>Martín tilts his head back, looking up at the perfectly blue sky. “But you asked,” he says, jaw clenched as if it’s painful to admit.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“But you did.”</p><p>Andrés nods. “I… I need you.”</p><p>“I know,” Martín says, lips quirking into a tiny smile.</p><p>Andrés looks over his shoulder where most of the gang – except for Stockholm and Rio – are blatantly staring at them. “We should go, the ceremony is going to start.”</p><p>Martín nods his agreement and Andrés leads him over to the group. He nods at the minister and the ceremony starts before any of the gang can say anything, Martín falling into place beside him.</p><p>In truth, Andrés doesn’t take in much of what the minister says. It’s the same thing they say at every funeral – that Sergio was loved, that he’s in a better place now, that he’s with God and his mother. Sergio didn’t even believe in God and Andrés bites back a laugh, remembering how a much younger Sergio had wrinkled his nose when their mother dragged them to church on the few occasions he was well enough to go.</p><p>Most of the gang are openly crying. Stockholm isn’t, but then again, she never knew him. The baby strapped to her chest is fast asleep and Andrés envies it. He hasn’t slept properly since before the heist. Tokyo isn’t crying either, her dark eyes fixed on a point above the minister’s shoulder.</p><p>Andrés zones out as the minister drones on. The heat rising up from the ground distorts everything and if Andrés tries hard enough he can imagine Sergio standing just behind a grove of trees, his glasses halfway down his nose, hand raised as if to adjust them.</p><p>A nudge to his shoulder startles him back into reality. He turns and sees Martín looking at him.</p><p>“It’s time,” he says quietly and Andrés nods.</p><p>The minister’s aide lowers the box containing the urn into hole and once he’s stepped away, the minister throws a small handful of petals on top. The minister takes a few steps back and Andrés moves forward.</p><p>He buries his hand in the bowlful of petals. They’re wet – probably to stop them from shrivelling up in the midday sun – and he can feel the sleeve of his shirt dampening as he grabs a handful. He holds the petals out over the hole and he doesn’t want to look, but he can’t not see the box at the bottom of it and think about the fact that it’s his little brother down there.</p><p>He feels frozen. He knows he needs to open his hand, let the petals tumble down and then step back so the others can take their turn, but he can’t. Because once he’s done that, it’s over, it’s done, and Andrés will have to face the fact that Sergio is really gone.</p><p>There’s a hand on his lower back. It’s not pressing, or guiding, it’s just… there. A comforting presence that he can feel through the layers of his suit jacket and shirt.</p><p>He turns his head just enough to see Martín standing next to him. Neither of them say anything, but when Martín catches Andrés’ eye he nods. Andrés swallows and drops the petals into the hole.</p><p>
  <em>Te quiero mucho, hermanito.</em>
</p><p>He can’t quite force the words out, but he knows Sergio knows. He hopes so anyway. Beside him, Martín releases his own handful of petals and then he’s guiding Andrés away, off to the side where the minister is standing.</p><p>The man eyes Martín with distaste, gaze lingering on Martín’s hand which is still on Andrés’ waist. Before, when they were closer, before Andrés changed things, ruined them, Andrés would have made the minister cower on his knees for daring to look at either of them like that. Now though, he can barely bring himself to care, he just enjoys the support Martín is lending him.</p><p>He doesn’t watch the others, does his best not to listen to what they say when they drop their own petals, he just stares at the ground and watches an ant crawl across his shoe.</p><p>“Berlin?”</p><p>He looks up when Nairobi calls his name. Her face is tearstained, and her dark eyes are full of sympathy that he doesn’t want to see. They’ve all been treating him like an unexploded bomb. They didn’t even know he and Sergio were brothers until they were escaping Spain and Sergio was dying and everything was falling apart.</p><p>“Berlin, it’s time to go back to the house,” she says, her voice more subdued than he’s ever heard it.</p><p>He nods sharply and gestures for her to go ahead. The minister leads the way back, his aide beside him, the gang following, and Andrés and Martín bringing up the rear.</p><p>They walk in silence. Little snippets of conversation between the members of the gang float back to them and Andrés doesn’t want them to be in his house with their conversations and their futures and their found family.</p><p>“How did it happen?”</p><p>Martín’s question is asked quietly, more deferential than the man Andrés – and Sergio – spent so much of their lives with, should have to be.</p><p>“He was shot on our way out,” Andrés says. “We got to the cargo ship, even with him injured and we patched the wound but…”</p><p>He shakes his head, unable to continue. Martín doesn’t press for details.</p><p>“He was brave,” he says instead and Andrés nods. “Never thought Sergio would be so brave.”</p><p>If anyone else had said what Martín just did, Andrés would have hurt them already. But he knows what Martín means, how he means it.</p><p>“Neither did I,” he agrees. “He shouldn’t have been. It was stupid.”</p><p>From the corner of his eye, he sees Martín give a wry smile. “We all do stupid things for the people we love.”</p><p>Andrés stops walking, waits for Martín to notice and turn back, to walk back towards him, before he speaks. “Like flying to the Philippines for the funeral of someone who died nine months ago?”</p><p>“Andrés,” Martín says softly, but he doesn’t deny it. His eyes are wide and a little wet and look too much like the last time Andrés saw him. “Let’s talk about this later.”</p><p>Andrés holds Martín’s gaze for a moment and then nods. “Alright.”</p><p>They keep walking, close enough that their hands brush. When Andrés takes Martín’s hand in his, holding too tightly to be comfortable, Martín doesn’t pull away, just threads their fingers together.</p><p>Everyone else is already there when they get to the house. The minster, who outright glares at their entwined hands, thankfully declines Andrés’ invitation to stay for lunch.</p><p>Right before they get into the kitchen where the rest of the gang are gathered, Andrés pulls his hand away. Martín sighs, but doesn’t say anything, following Andrés into the kitchen.</p><p>The others are already seated at the table, Andrés nods at his housekeeper, Carla, who finishes pouring coffee before leaving the room.</p><p>There are two seats left, between Stockholm and Helsinki, so Andrés takes the one next to Stockholm, glad when Martín follows without protest.</p><p>“So… uh, no offense,” Tokyo says after a moment where no one seems to want to speak. “But who the fuck are you?”</p><p>Andrés speaks before Martín can. “This is Martín, he was a friend of mine and… my brother’s.”</p><p>“Why weren’t you involved in the heist?” Denver asks, blunt as ever and Andrés grits his teeth, afraid of Martín’s reaction.</p><p>Thankfully the other man seems unwilling to speak ill of the dead – or maybe just Sergio – in front of a group of criminals. “It wasn’t my kind of thing,” Martín says simply.</p><p>Denver raises his eyebrows. “Getting rich wasn’t your thing?” he asks and Andrés scowls at him until he shoves a sandwich into his mouth instead of talking.</p><p>Nairobi is the next to speak. “So if you weren’t involved in the heist… why are you here?”</p><p>Martín shifts in his seat, reaching for the cup of coffee in front of him and taking a long sip before he speaks. “Sergio and I knew each other a long time, we were friends,” he says and Nairobi nods. “And also, Andrés asked me to come, so I did.”</p><p>“Just like that?” Rio blurts and Martín nods.</p><p>“Just like that.”</p><p>Andrés wants to say something, maybe thank you, but Stockholm steers the conversation into what seems like more neutral territory.</p><p>The lunch drags on for hours, with everyone trying to update the others on what they’ve been up to in the eight months since they’ve seen each other. Andrés eats compulsively, a few bites of a sandwich, a few cubes of fruit, whatever Martín surreptitiously slides onto his plate.</p><p>Every now and then someone will mention ‘the Professor’ fondly and Andrés’ stomach will twist and his heart will start beating much faster and his hands will shake harder than they have since he started his new treatment.</p><p>And somehow Martín always knows and his knee will nudge against Andrés’, or his hand will brush against the one Andrés is gripping the table with. It’s just seconds, the briefest of touches, but Andrés remembers how to breathe again and he can smile at whatever memory the others are reminiscing about.</p><p>Eventually, when the afternoon gets later and later and Stockholm and Denver’s child starts getting restless, people start to drift. Nairobi and Tokyo suggest a walk along the beach, which Rio and Denver are happy to accompany them on. Helsinki wants a nap and Stockholm needs to change the baby.</p><p>When Carla starts clearing the dishes, Martín gets up too.</p><p>Andrés follows immediately, he can’t help himself, almost like if he lets Martín out of his sight, he’ll disappear. He dislikes this new version of himself, he was never the type to chase after people, preferring to let his love interests fawn over him, worship him. But since Sergio has been gone, every one of his other relationships that he’s looked back on seems hollow, unlike the true bond of brotherly love he’d had with Sergio. Every relationship that is, except what he used to have with Martín.</p><p>“Where did you leave your things?” Andrés asks for lack of a better question when they move from the kitchen into the hallway.</p><p>“Uh, your housekeeper said she’d put them in the bedroom next to your atelier,” Martín says.</p><p>Andrés nods, that makes sense, it’s the smallest bedroom in the house, all the others already taken. But having Martín at the other end of the house, with two floors between them doesn’t seem right, seems too far.</p><p>“Come stay with me, in my room,” he says and Martín’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.</p><p>“Andrés,” he says, voice still quiet. Andrés hasn’t seen the boisterous, loud Martín since before he left him. “I know you’re hurting but, I can’t… I can’t just let you use me until you’re feeling better and then kick me out.”</p><p>Andrés clenches his jaw. “Is that what you think of me?”</p><p>“Are you saying I’m wrong to think that?” Martín challenges, and there it is, there’s the fire Andrés knows and has missed and has loved.</p><p>“Yes,” Andrés says automatically. “I mean… no. Yes. Maybe once you would have been right. But now… Now I’ve lost my brother and the life I used to have. And before that, I lost you because I pushed you away.” Martín is so still, it almost looks like he’s a statue as he stares at Andrés. “Now, I’ve spent three years regretting how I left you and how I treated you. Now, I’ve spent all that time missing you and I reached out to you, because if there was a chance I wouldn’t have to miss you anymore I had to take it. If there was a chance I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to the one person I didn’t manage to alienate but lost anyway without you, I had to take it, do you understand? I had to.”</p><p>Martín is silent for a long moment that stretches between them endlessly. Like someone unravelled every second they were apart and laid them out next to each other and their sum is the five feet of silent distance between them right now.</p><p>“Let’s go get my stuff,” Martín finally says and Andrés breathes a sigh of relief.</p><p>They wordlessly retrieve Martín’s suitcase from the guest bedroom and then Martín follows Andrés upstairs, up to the second floor which has only a terrace garden and the master bedroom.</p><p>Martín closes the door behind him cautiously, as if he’s still unsure of his place here. His suitcase is quickly deposited on the ottoman at the end of the bed and then there’s just the two of them, with empty hands and things they should probably discuss, but Andrés doesn’t have the energy for.</p><p>Instead he kicks off his shoes, undoes his tie, and unbuttons his shirt. He strips down to his undershirt and briefs and then crawls onto the bed. Martín is still staring at him, stood in the middle of the room like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.</p><p>“Martín,” Andrés says and oh, how he’s missed saying his name. “Would you… would you join me? Please.”</p><p>Martín doesn’t say anything, but nods, copying Andrés by stripping down to his underwear. Unlike Andrés, he isn’t wearing an undershirt and Andrés points him towards his dresser, where he finds a t-shirt to pull on. It’s not as strange as he might have thought, seeing Martín in his clothes.</p><p>Martín finally, finally joins Andrés on the bed, lying next to him, his whole body radiating how tense he is, how fragile this whole situation is. But Andrés was the one who broke them, and he is the one who needs to fix them. He turns on his side so he’s facing Martín and slowly reaches out a hand towards him.</p><p>Martín meets him halfway, as he always did, tangling their fingers with a confidence Andrés has missed and wants all their touches to have. He wants to say something meaningful, something that will make up for the past three years.</p><p>“I miss him,” is what he says instead. He swallows hard, blinking back the tears he hasn’t allowed himself to shed. “I miss him and I know how wrong it is of me to ask… to make you be the one to comfort me, I just… I miss him so much and you’re the only one who understands.”</p><p>Martín sighs and for ten, terrifying seconds Andrés thinks he’s going to leave. Of course, he has once again underestimated his friend, because Martín just shuffles closer, arms wrapping around Andrés, pulling him close.</p><p>Andrés exhales against his neck and tries to pretend that he isn’t crying, that Martín is holding him because he wants to, that Andrés never left him and this is just something they do. Martín strokes a hand up and down his back, fingers of his other hand curled securely in the fabric of Andrés’ undershirt.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he says softly and Andrés has missed the way his accent tilts words, the way he smells, the way he breathes. “You’re allowed to miss him Andrés, you’re allowed to grieve, you’re allowed to let go.”</p><p>Andrés can’t reply, can’t force words from his mouth, even though all his life talking has been something he’s so good at he doesn’t even need to think about it. He just chokes out an ugly sob he’d be ashamed to let anyone else hear and clutches at Martín.</p><p>“That’s it cariño, let go, you’re okay. It’ll be alright,” Martín soothes and Andrés doesn’t know how he’s lived the last nine months without him, let alone three years.</p><p>He does as he’s told and lets it all out, everything he’s been holding back since Sergio succumbed to the infection that he’d never have had, if he hadn’t take a bullet for Andrés. He cries for what feels like hours, harsh and ragged in a way he hasn’t cried since he was a child, since the first time Sergio went to the hospital and their mother told him that there was a chance he wouldn’t come back home.</p><p>“It was supposed to be me,” he eventually chokes out. “I was dying and I thought someone should stay behind. I stayed and I sent Helsinki and Nairobi out through the tunnel and I said goodbye to Sergio, but he came back for me. He came back even though I told him to go.”</p><p>Martín holds him tighter, one hand migrating from Andrés back to his head, his calloused fingers stroking through his hair. “Of course he did, he’s your brother. How could he not, when you would have done the same?”</p><p>“He shouldn’t have,” Andrés insists and he feels Martín shrug.</p><p>“We know that now. But in that moment, Sergio made his choice just as you had made yours.” He pauses for a moment, hand still in Andrés’ hair. “As I would have made mine, if I had been there.”</p><p>Andrés pulls away, trying to ignore the huge damp patch on Martín’s shirt that he left. “You would have done the same as Sergio? Why?”</p><p>Martín meets his eyes, gaze steady. “You know why.”</p><p>Andrés does. He knew of Martín’s feelings long before Sergio said anything, knew of his own too. He knows why Sergio didn’t want Martín to be a part of the heist and for a long time it was easier to blame what happened between Martín and himself on his brother. But it was his decision to leave Martín, to break his heart. He owes it both to Martín and Sergio to take responsibility.</p><p>“I do,” he says. “And I wish I hadn’t left you. I wish I’d fought for you to come into the mint with us, I wish I’d done something about us earlier, I wish I weren’t the coward you accused me of being. I wish I hadn’t broken what we had.”</p><p>Martín was still stroking his hair, almost absently, like you would a pet, but at Andrés' words he stills. “I don’t think it’s broken. Maybe cracked, but not irreparably. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”</p><p>Andrés stares at him, trying to be certain of what he’s saying.</p><p>“I always was fond of kintsugi,” he says slowly and the corners of Martín’s mouth turn up into a ghost of a smile.</p><p>“And metaphors,” he says and Andrés exhales a shaky laugh. “So let me make it clear with this metaphor, that while some things are beautiful and strong, once they’ve been repaired, they also can’t break again. Once is enough. Understand?”</p><p>Andrés nods and they’re so close they’re breathing the same air. “I understand,” he whispers.</p><p>He’s not sure which one of them definitively closes the distance between them, but once Martín’s lips are against his, he can’t find it in him to care. Martín pulls him closer, hands on Andrés’ waist, one leg sliding over Andrés’.</p><p>They don’t break apart until Andrés, slightly breathless, lets out a massive yawn that has Martín sniggering like a child.</p><p>“It’s not that funny,” Andrés protests and Martín smiles, a little too softly to still be teasing him.</p><p>“It kind of is.”</p><p>Andrés sighs and Martín kisses him again, softly, briefly, before he pulls away.</p><p>“You need to sleep,” he orders, bossy like the Martín that Andrés used to know.</p><p>Andrés tries to argue but is cut off by another yawn. “Fine,” he says. “But you’re dealing with my house full of criminals and their offspring.”</p><p>“Nope,” Martín says, prodding Andrés until he rolls onto his other side and Martín can press himself along his back. “They can look after themselves, I’m staying here. I flew all the way from Italy today, you know.”</p><p>Andrés grasps the hand Martín had folded over his stomach. “I know. Thank you.”</p><p>“Thank me later,” Martín insists. “Sleep now, mi amor.”</p><p>Andrés nods, pushing back into the warmth of Martín’s arms and smiling when he feels three small kisses against his neck.</p><p>“I love you, Martín,” he mumbles, somewhere into the space between sleep and wakefulness, and is unconscious before he can hear Martín’s reply.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you're welcome for the most ooc andrés and martín you've ever read</p><p>so yeah.... leave a comment/kudos if you didn't hate this? or scream at me on tumblr (<a href="https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com">@hefellfordean</a>) or twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/angstypalermo">@angstypalermo</a>)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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